


An Act of Open Defiance

by Lion_of_Eben



Series: The Bastards of Westeros [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: But it's not actually super relevant, F/M, Mostly just pornographic nonsense, but there's like 8 sentences of plot, mostly because it's a sister story to And Their Walls Came Tumbling Down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 05:21:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8832004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lion_of_Eben/pseuds/Lion_of_Eben
Summary: Sansa Stark generally doesn't take imperious royal orders kindly, a character quirk which Sandor has absolutely no problem with.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a "Meanwhile back at the ranch..." to "And Their Walls Came Tumbling Down."

There were few things in life that Sandor Clegane had ever truly wanted. When he was a boy, Gregor had seen to his dreams. When he was a man, Cersei had done the same. And so now, here, with the roar of drunken laughter behind the oak door to his back and the panting woman wearing nothing but a torn shift to his front, he could not help but feel that something in his life had gone terribly wrong. Or perhaps terribly right. All he knew was that he desperately needed her to stop breathing that way, else the rise of her chest would drive him mad. 

She took a step towards him, and on instinct he took a step back. It was foolish. She was a small woman. She could do him no harm, but gods, if he didn’t want her near him. Her pretty brow crinkled and her eyes flicked to the floor before she turned away from him to pour herself some wine. 

Firelight flickered along the back of her neck and reflected in the copper of her hair. Sansa Stark was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen. She’d gone undeniably wild in the years she had been away in the Vale. She’d gotten strong and uncompromising and dangerously, dangerously sweet. He wanted her terribly, and knew he couldn’t have her. 

“Little Bird,” he murmured, keeping his voice as low and unthreatening as he could. “You don’t need to be afraid. I know this isn’t what you would have chosen, that you don’t want this. I won’t touch you. I would never hurt you.” 

Sansa’s slender shoulders shook a bit and he heard her let out an unladylike snort into her wine. Sandor tried not to be hurt. If she did not believe that him capable of keeping his hands off her, he would just have to prove himself. 

Sansa set her goblet on the table and rounded to face him, eyes determined and dancing and blue. “I intend to be married to you in truth tonight, Sandor Clegane, not just in name.” 

“Only because you have no alternative. I know you would have remained unmarried if the Queen hadn’t -- ”

“But the Queen did. I had no choice in the marriage, but I had choice in my husband.” 

It was Sandor’s turn to snort in derision, and he raked his hand through his hair in nervous exasperation. “I agreed to this marriage to protect you from the leeches who would use you as their political pawn. Who would use you for a convenient fuck when they were too drunk to get to the whorehouse. I’ll not abuse my position.” 

Sansa laughed, and the pretty, clear sound that normally thrilled him only served to set him on edge. “Gods be good, Sandor, exercising your husbandly rights is hardly abuse of your position.” She was closer now, and he could smell her, warm and sweet and feminine. 

“I serve you. I protect you. I can’t force you, _rights_ or not. This farce of a marriage is necessary, not wanted. We’ll pretend to have consummated. Danaerys won’t know the difference.” 

“ _I’ll_ know. I won’t be able to sleep from the fear of knowing. With Jon gone, there’s nothing preventing her from doing as she likes. Aegon won’t protect us, and the North and the Vale are too weak to come to our aid.” 

Gods, but he wanted her. He could touch her if he just lifted his hand. She had filled out since the War of Five Kings, all gentle curves and full lips and warm smiles. Sansa Stark was no little bird, not any longer. She was too much of a woman to be considered anything else. 

“Fucking you won’t make any difference. If Danaerys doesn’t take kindly to our insolence and dissolves the marriage, it won’t matter if we’ve consummated. There’s nothing to stop her regardless.” 

Sansa placed her dainty fingers on his chest, pressing right over the frantic beat of his heart. Her teeth scraped over her lower lip and her eyes met his from beneath her lashes. He’d never know how she managed to simultaneously look vulnerable and determined, but it was damn near enough to send him out of his mind. 

“It matters to me, Sandor.” 

Sandor shut his eyes. He couldn’t look at her when she was this close, when she was touching him, when he wanted, wanted, wanted. He felt her stand on her toes, one hand curving around his shoulder to steady herself, the other tangling gently in his hair, fingers scraping so softly along his scalp. Sandor needed, very badly, to stop her. He did. He should. Now. Her lips were at his ear on his good side, her breath warm. 

“Please. Don’t make me beg.” 

The words were like warm water trickling along his spine. He wasn’t sure when his hands had gotten full with her hips, but he liked to think that he did intend to push her away. It was just that he wasn’t pushing her away, the thumb of one hand stroking along the bone of her hip, the other finding the tender in-curve of her waist. Sansa hummed in approval and pressed a warm string of kisses along his neck. Sandor’s control was not infinite, and delicious, pulsing need was already pounding through his veins. Her hands on him was one thing, but her mouth.… If Sansa bloody Stark wanted to be well and truly fucked even in their bizarre circumstance, well… who was he to deny her? 

Sandor dropped the hand on the swell of her hip down to the curve of her ass, cupping her before bunching the material of her shift into his hand. Her lips parted and her breath faltered and her eyes were wide and warm and so trusting. He didn’t deserve a godsdamned bit of her, but she was in his arms and asking for him, and he couldn’t help it. Sandor nudged her legs apart and hitched one of her thighs to his hip, grinding his hard length into where she was soft and warm. “This is what you want?” 

Sansa’s head lolled back and she let out a shaky little whimper. “Oh,” she breathed. “Yes.” 

“Have you done this before?” 

Sansa’s eyes flashed open and she looked at him with her brow furrowed. “You know I haven’t.” 

“I know what you told the court. That isn’t the same…” her hips ground back against his, writhing artlessly, and his breath stuttered in response “…as the truth.” Sandor couldn’t believe that she had been married to one of the most sexually deviant men in the realm, kidnapped by the most successful whoremonger in Westerosi history, and betrothed to a notorious womanizer, and yet escaped unscathed. 

“No, I’ve never... that is, I haven’t….” 

“Fucked,” he growled, lowering her leg. “You haven’t fucked.” 

“That’s correct,” she murmured. Her voice was soft, but her eyes were narrowed dangerously. 

Sandor cupped her face, stroking his thumbs along her delicate cheekbones. “I don’t want to hurt you, Little Bird.” 

Sansa shook her head, and her hand was pressed against his heart again. “You won’t. My maidenhead is no longer intact. Danaerys had me inspected for the annulment, but Jon suppressed what the maester found. He promised to personally disembowel the man and rain hell upon Dragonstone if my annulment wasn’t granted.” 

“It can still hurt. I’ve no experience with maids.” 

Sandor saw her grin before she buried her face in his shirt, her curious fingers slipping beneath the hemline to send ribbons of excited pleasure along his side. “I never thought you’d be so reluctant to bed me. You always look at me as though you’d rather like to ravish me.” 

Sandor snorted and wrapped his arms around her in an embrace, pressing his face into the soft copper of her hair, wild affection thrumming in his chest nearly as strong as the lust. “I would rather like to ravish you.” 

Her hands were trailing along the skin of his spine now, and the sensation was enough to make his fingers curl reflexively against it. He pressed a kiss to her temple and let his hands explore the fullness of her hips, the generous undercurve of her breast, the softness of her throat. Her arms snaked around his neck, and he felt her tremble against him as she pressed closer. He cupped her ass and ground her against him again, just to see if it would scare her off. Her head tipped back, though, and she let out a pretty, little moan, all womanly and needy and pleasured. 

Sandor couldn’t believe that she wanted him. He’d long ago grown accustomed to the idea that she did not mind his face, at least certainly not as much as she had when she was a girl. But the idea that she wanted him to touch her, that she _liked_ when he touched her was… elating. He knew she would not allow this had Danaerys not ordered her to marry, had Sansa Stark not married the landless younger brother of Elia Martell’s butcher in an act of open defiance. But when he stroked a thumb over her nipple through her shift and sucked gently on her throat, she sighed “Oh, I’m so glad it’s you.” The circumstances were so, so wrong, and the threat of Aegon’s dragonfire loomed close, but she already felt sweeter than any other woman he could remember. 

“Take this off,” he growled at her, tugging on her shift, enormously frustrated by the clothes that separated her from him. 

Her eyes flicked to his, warm and sweet and nervous. Her teeth sank back into her lower lip as her hands began to bunch the material at her hips and pull upwards. He couldn’t tell if she removed her shift inch by agonizingly slow inch out of shyness or out of the desire to tease him, but her arms were still over her head and tangled in the material when he lost patience. He stepped forward and pressed kisses to her throat, her collarbone, her sternum, before taking a silken nipple into his mouth. Sansa gave him that same sweet moan as before, her spine arching into him, her naked skin so, so soft against the calluses of his hands. Her arms were still twisted in her shift, so he pulled away to give her the opportunity to rid herself of it properly while he tugged his own shirt over his head. 

Sandor watched as she pulled the pins from her hair, drinking in the sight of her greedily. The pink of her cheeks nearly matched the pink of her distended nipples, the auburn curls between her legs were a shade darker than the copper of her hair, her curves were full and lovely and begging to be touched, and all Sandor could think were words like _pretty_ and _want_ and _fuck_. Her hair dripped over her shoulders, framing her breasts, and Sandor couldn’t help but reach out to sift the soft silk between his fingers. 

“Lie down on the bed,” he ordered, his voice gravel. 

Sansa’s cheeks flushed even more, her eyes flicking shyly to the floor before she obeyed. Her eyes met his as she stretched herself over the furs, lips parted, breath deep and stuttering. Sandor’s chest ached in response, clenching tightly when her eyes roamed over his shoulders, his chest, his belly, his still-clothed cock. Her fingers were trailing along her ribs and the curve of her stomach as her eyes explored him, which only served to make the need pulse harder. 

“Spread your legs for me, Sansa. Let me see you.” Her thighs trembled as they parted, her teeth sunk into her lip again, her eyes locked heatedly with his. _Pretty. Want. Fuck._ Sandor shed his pants, too oppressive to suffer any longer, his hand stroking over his cock reflexively. 

“Oh, Sandor, should I…?” She leaned up on one elbow and reached towards him. _Yes. Gods, yes, touch me, please touch me_ …. But the sensation of the pads of her fingers trailing shyly along his length ratcheted up his need too high, too fast, and Sandor wanted very much to stay in control, to make this good for her. He pulled her hand away, and she barely had a moment to crease her brow in concern before his tongue was back laving at her nipple. She collapsed back on the bed and arched beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair when he sucked, her inner thigh caressing along his hip. 

Sandor’s fingers journeyed down her belly and dipped between her legs where she was blessedly wet. He swirled a finger gently over the little spot at the top of her sex that always made women moan before circling around her entrance. He eased a finger into her slowly, allowing her to get accustomed to the intrusion, and she writhed her hips a bit at the penetration. “Oh,” she sighed. “Oh, that’s so… could you...?” Sandor slowly withdrew his finger before stroking inside of her again just as leisurely. “Yes, that.” Sansa hummed in pleasure as he built a rhythm, and it wasn’t long before she was grinding against his hand and moaning whenever he flicked his thumb against her clitoris. When he added a second finger, he could tell that the stretch was a bit much for her, but she sighed just as she did before, hands exploring his shoulders and chest and spine. 

Sandor couldn’t be sure when exactly she would be ready, but she was making mewling sounds and her arousal soaked his fingers and her hips were undulating in time with his thrusts, so he figured she was as prepared as she could be. He couldn’t help the smug grin that spread over his lips when she made a noise of disapproval as he removed his fingers. 

Sandor settled his back against the headboard in a sitting position and pulled her to him, urging her to straddle his hips. 

“Sandor, I don’t… I mean, I’ve never… I’m not sure how.” Her eyes were somewhere between helpless and confused, so he soothed gentle circles into the curve of her waist. 

“I don’t know how, either, and I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured as he aligned himself with her core. “Just go at your own pace. Do whatever feels good.” 

Sansa nodded, her fingers scraping against his scalp again, her lips pressing kisses along his face, on the good side which he could feel, and on the bad side which he couldn’t. The heat of urgency drifted away as something warmer and more tender took its place, making his mouth coast slowly over her collarbone and his tongue dip into her clavicle. She was lowering herself onto him now, the inch-by-inch slide of her torturously slow and so, so very good. 

When he was fully enveloped in her warmth, her delicate muscles fluttering around him in distress, her face a mask of pleasure or pain or both, he let his hands roam over her. He teased her back to arousal, stroking over her nipples, her hips, the little spot above where they were joined. He tried desperately to remain still inside of her, to ward off the deep profundity of being inside of Sansa Stark for the first time, to let her use him as she saw fit. And soon enough she was writhing her hips against his, and then rocking in a slow rhythm, and then at his gentle urging, properly thrusting. 

One of her arms withdrew from around his neck and drifted down his chest, her palm pressed firmly against the frantic beat of his heart for the third time. “This is mine now,” she whispered fiercely, her eyes dark with pleasure. He wanted to tell her that it had been hers for years, that she owned him so completely that it went without saying. 

Instead, the words “Kiss me,” tumbled from his throat, his voice far too desperate to be anything but humiliating. He couldn’t care, though, not when her lips pressed so eagerly to his and she moaned so sweetly when his tongue twined with hers. 

She was getting close, he could tell, her rhythm falling apart, her body trembling, the hitch of her breath faltering. He snaked his fingers back down to her cunt, swirling over her clit. She cried out moments later, her hips grinding down hard against his, her fingernails scouring into his back, her muscles clenching tightly around him. It was the most glorious thing he’d ever witnessed. 

She sat slumped against him when it was over, her face pressed into his throat, her muscles still dancing weakly, deliciously around him. “Oh gods, Sandor. Oh gods,” she whispered, her thighs trembling. Sandor allowed her a moment of reprieve before flipping her back onto the mattress, gripping the headboard with one hand and pulling her hips up to his with the other. 

He slid home again, and her back arched into his thrust. He tried to be careful with her, to stay gentle, but his control was shot and the feel of her was too intense for him to do much besides chase his own pleasure. It was like he was lost in a sea of sensation, drowning in the warmth of her, and every touch, kiss, sigh, and moan sent him farther out from shore. She arched up and pressed all of her against all of him, and one silky leg wrapped around his waist, dragging him deeper inside. 

He only lasted a few seconds more, his completion as euphoric as taking a first breath of air after minutes beneath the water’s surface. He spilled into her, giving her everything he was, the pulsing pleasure of it chasing all the way out to his fingertips, and nothing mattered, nothing in the whole world, besides her and him and the way this felt. 

Sandor collapsed on the bed beside her, letting his spine curve with the mattress, a small smile curving along the edges of his mouth. Gods, if this was what happiness felt like, he hoped it never ended. She was his now, and he was hers, and not even godsdamned dragonfire could change that. 

“Sandor?” 

His eyes opened and met hers. She looked shy again, and it made his chest clench in nervous affection. Her fingers were tracing absently along the scars patterned over his belly, the casual touch somehow more intimate and familiar than anything they’d done in the past half hour. 

“We have to warn Arya. If Danaerys made me marry, she’ll almost certainly do the same for Arya. And Jon. We have to find a way to contact him as well. We’ll need to send alarm to the Manderlys, ask if they can return Rickon discreetly. They won’t like losing their ward, but under the circumstances… if Jon doesn’t return with Bran….” 

Sandor pulled her closer, draping an arm over her waist and tangling his legs with hers. The physical comfort of her was more soothing than anything. “Aegon would be loathe to set against his brother, Little Bird, and he has no great love for Danaerys. We’ve technically complied with them so far, and with or without his dragon, the queen fears your cousin. She won’t come for Winterfell, not so soon after winter, and not with so little support. We’ve time yet. Be still. We’ve time yet.”


End file.
